Kingmaker

It sounded close enough to his own that he would not stumble when fear took his tongue.

The cart rocked as someone struck its wheel with a spear butt.

“Show yourself.”

Robert’s eyes widened. Edrin raised one finger. The boy swallowed.

A second voice called from beyond the cart. “Leave it. We’ve searched this row twice.”

“Then search it a third time.”

The spear butt struck again. A sack split. Turnips spilled over Edrin’s boots, hard and cold.

He moved before the guard could thrust through the canvas.

Edrin kicked the rear board loose and burst into the lane behind the cart. A farm woman shrieked as he stumbled into her baskets. Robert crawled after him, clutching his cap, and vanished beneath the press of cloaks before the guards could see him.

“Stop!” one of them shouted.

Edrin ran.

Bramblewick Grounds had been built for horses, not men. Wagons clogged every passage. Hawkers leaned over their stalls, crying out the virtues of spiced cider, lucky ribbons, and boiled eggs. Children darted between legs. A drummer beat a frantic rhythm near the gate, drowning curses beneath thunder.

Edrin forced his way through the crowd, keeping his head lowered. His borrowed boots slipped in mud. Someone seized his sleeve, and he tore free, leaving a strip of gray cloth in the stranger’s hand.

The entry pavilion stood ahead, marked by a tall blue banner. Beneath it, knights waited in a line while heralds checked names and arms. The lists lay beyond the pavilion. Once Edrin crossed that threshold, he would be inside.

He only needed to reach it.

Robert appeared at his side as if the crowd had made him. “The guards are behind us.”

“I noticed.”

“They saw my face.”

“Then keep it covered.”

“They saw yours too.”

Edrin glanced back. Two guards were pushing through the crowd, their green-and-brown badges bright against their padded coats.

He seized Robert by the shoulder and steered him toward a row of ale barrels. “Go around the pavilion. Find the stable wall. Wait there.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not leaving me. You’re keeping me from being caught with you.”

Robert’s mouth tightened. He understood the difference, which was one of the reasons Edrin had brought him. “What if they catch you?”

“Then tell them I was a terrible master and you’ve never seen me before.”

“You are a terrible master.”

“Good. Remember that.”

Robert slipped away beneath a hanging cloth.

Edrin turned toward the pavilion.

A guard stepped in front of him.

He was broad across the shoulders, with a broken nose and a scar running from his left eye to his jaw. His spear was lowered, not quite touching Edrin’s chest.

“Name,” the guard said.

Edrin kept his breathing even. “Ser Edric Vale.”

The guard’s gaze traveled over the patched surcoat, the plain sword, and the mud on his boots. “Which order?”

“None.”

“Which lord?”

“Lord - ”

The guard smiled without warmth. “Careful.”

Behind Edrin, the crowd surged. The second guard was close now. Edrin could hear him asking people whether they had seen a young man in a gray cloak.

He looked past the scarred guard toward the pavilion. Inside, men in polished armor waited beneath the blue banner. One wore a red cloak fastened with a gold brooch. The tournament herald. If Edrin could reach him, the lie might become official before anyone could pull it apart.

“My lord’s name is not for common ears,” Edrin said.

The scarred guard’s smile vanished. “Then your lord can come claim you.”

“He sent me to claim a place.”

“Your lord sent a man without a shield?”

Edrin touched the empty strap at his back. “My shield was broken on the road.”

“And your horse?”

“Lamed.”

“And your squire?”

For one moment, Robert’s face flashed in his mind beneath the cart.

“Dead,” Edrin said.

The word fell between them.

The guard studied him. “That is a hard story for a man who looks barely old enough to shave.”

“I have shaved.”

“Poorly.”

The second guard reached them. “That’s him.”

A few heads turned. The crowd’s attention gathered like rainwater in a hollow.

The scarred guard leaned closer. “If you’re caught wearing a false badge, they’ll strip you in front of the stands. If you claim knighthood without proof, the master of the lists may have you flogged.”

Edrin felt the rough thread of the silver hawk beneath his fingers.

He had spent three months saving for the surcoat, two nights practicing the walk, and the whole of yesterday whispering his invented history to himself until the words felt almost true. He had no land, no family crest, and no sword worthy of a knight. But the tournament offered coin, and coin could buy a horse. A horse could carry him beyond the fields where every man knew his father had died with a spade in his hands.

He had not come this far to be beaten by a guard’s suspicion.

Edrin stepped forward.

The spear point pressed into his chest. “Don’t.”

He grabbed the shaft with both hands, twisted, and drove his shoulder into the guard’s breastbone. The man staggered. Edrin hooked his foot behind the guard’s ankle and sent him crashing into the pavilion post.

The crowd erupted.

The second guard swung. Edrin ducked, felt the wind of the blow stir his hair, and drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. The guard grunted. Edrin seized the blue banner rope, hauled himself over the low rail, and landed inside the entry pavilion.

A herald in a red cloak spun toward him.

“Name!” the herald demanded.

“Ser Edric Vale.”

The guard behind him struck the rail with his spear. “He’s no knight!”

The herald’s eyes sharpened. “Your order?”

“Unsworn.”

“That is not an order.”

“Then write me as a wandering sword.”

“You need a sponsor.”

Edrin heard the crowd outside. The guards were climbing over the rail now. Beyond the pavilion, the lists waited, bright beneath the morning sun. A dozen riders had already taken their places. Their armor gleamed. Their horses stamped and tossed their heads.

The herald lifted a hand. “Remove him.”

Edrin drew his sword.

It came free with a scrape that sounded pitiful beside the polished weapons around him. A few men laughed. One of the mounted knights turned in his saddle.

Edrin pointed the blade at the nearest rider, a thick man in blue plate whose shield bore a golden stag.

“I challenge the next unclaimed bout,” he said.

The herald stared at him. “You have no right.”

“Then deny me before the stands.”

The words carried beyond the pavilion. The nearest spectators quieted. The guards halted, uncertain now. A man could be beaten in an alley. A man who had publicly challenged the tournament could not be dragged away without making the organizers look afraid.

The knight with the golden stag rode closer. His visor was raised, revealing a broad, bored face.

“Who is this?”

“A liar,” said the scarred guard.

Edrin did not lower his sword. “A man willing to ride.”

The knight laughed. “He has no horse.”

“Give me yours.”

That earned a louder laugh from the stands.

The herald’s face had gone pale with irritation. “Ser Edric Vale, if that is your name, you will answer three questions before you enter.”

Edrin kept his gaze on the knight. “Ask.”

“Who knighted you?”

“Sir Halren of the Ash Road.”

A murmur moved through the pavilion. The name had come to him from a carved grave marker beside his village road.

The herald narrowed his eyes. “Where did he hold his court?”

“At Redwater Ford, beneath the broken bell tower.”

“Who witnessed the oath?”

Edrin’s mouth had gone dry. “No lord. Only soldiers.”

The herald looked toward the master of the lists, who stood watching from beside the rail. “That is not a lawful knighting.”

“It was lawful enough for the men who needed a sword.”

The blue-armored knight lowered his visor. “I’ll take him.”

“Master?” the herald called.

The master of the lists was an older woman with iron-gray hair and a scarred cheek. She studied Edrin for a long moment, then looked at the guards.

“Did he draw blood?”

“Not yet,” said the scarred guard.

“Then he has earned the right to lose.”

The herald objected. “He has no sponsor.”

The master pointed to the golden stag. “Ser Marden sponsors him for this bout.”

The knight turned his horse sharply. “I do not.”

“You volunteered to take him,” she said. “That is close enough.”

The crowd cheered at the cruelty of it.

Edrin’s knees nearly weakened with relief. He sheathed his sword and ran toward the stable wall. Robert waited there beside a tethered gray gelding, clutching a battered helm much too large for him.

“I found this,” Robert said.

“Where?”

“From a dead man.”

Edrin stared.

Robert’s expression hardened. “Not very dead. He was drunk.”

“There is a difference.”

“Not from where I stood.”

The gray gelding shied as Edrin approached. He caught its bridle, murmured until it stopped fighting, and swung into the saddle. The borrowed helm sat crooked on his head. He pulled the visor down, and the world narrowed to slits of sunlight and iron.

Robert stepped close. “Your lie is already being written down.”

“What?”

“The herald told a clerk your name.”

Edrin looked toward the pavilion. A young scribe was indeed bent over a ledger, scratching quickly. The scarred guard stood beside him, pointing toward Edrin.

The lie had become ink.

Edrin tightened his grip on the reins. “Then I had better give them something worth recording.”

He rode onto the lists.

The noise changed there. The crowd became a wall of sound, broken by the clatter of harness and the nervous snort of horses. Across the trampled earth, Ser Marden lowered his lance. The golden stag on his shield seemed to leap beneath the sunlight.

Edrin had practiced with fence posts, hay bales, and once with a furious bull. None had worn armor. None had charged him with a sharpened lance.

The trumpet sounded.

Ser Marden came forward.

Edrin’s horse lurched beneath him. He nearly lost the reins, caught them, and lowered his own lance. It was too long, too heavy, and balanced for a stronger rider. The point wavered.

Marden’s lance struck first.

Edrin twisted. The blow smashed into his shoulder, numbing his arm and spinning him half out of the saddle. His boot slipped free of one stirrup. The crowd roared as he fought to stay mounted.

He heard Robert shouting from beyond the rail.

“Edrin!”

The name cut through the noise.

Edrin found the stirrup, dragged himself upright, and wheeled the gelding before Marden could reach the end of the lane. His shoulder burned. The guards had gathered near the master of the lists. The scribe was watching him now.

No more mistakes.

Marden charged again.

Edrin waited until the last instant, then guided the gelding left. His lance met the blue knight’s shield at an angle. Wood cracked. Marden’s shield tore away, and his body lurched backward.

The stands fell silent.

Edrin released the broken lance, drew his sword, and turned as Marden’s horse stumbled. The knight hit the earth hard enough to raise dust.

For a breath, nobody moved.

Then the grounds exploded with cheers.

Edrin sat shaking in the saddle, his shoulder hanging uselessly at his side. He looked toward the pavilion.

The herald was not cheering. Neither was the scarred guard.

The scribe had closed his ledger and carried it to the master of the lists. She read the page, then lifted her eyes to Edrin.

Robert pushed through the spectators, grinning despite the fear in his face.

Edrin had entered the tournament.

He had won.

But as the master pointed toward him and sent two officials across the lists, Edrin understood the price of victory. His false name no longer hid him in the crowd.

It had placed a mark beside him.

End of chapter one. 39 more chapters and about 82,317 words in the full book.